The Crystal Court
by 0TheCluster0
Summary: Star-crossed lovers, become one. A time-displaced changeling. The Knight of Roses. And the first half-fae, half-human. These are the only remnants of the Crystal Court. (Faerie AU) Chapter 6: Pearl isn't sure if she wants to love a baby, all messy and loud and above all else, not Rose. Unfortunately, she doesn't seem to have much of a choice in the matter.
1. Inculpate

**Authors' Note:** This story is a Fae AU, featuring stand-alone one shots capturing moments in time from the universe. It's told in achronic order, and focuses on different characters each chapter, with tags updating to reflect this.

oOo

 **Inculpate**

Summary: _Once upon a time, a fairytale ends._

oOo

A young man, a young woman and a wedding.

They're poorer than dirt, maybe, but they're certainly happy together. All those in the village smile to see them walk, hand in hand, along the river, smiling, skipping stones. Young love brings back fond memories. Nostalgia for a simpler time, one that never existed anywhere other than in their heads.

The young lovers wed in the spring amidst the apple blossoms, and jump over the threshold of their new home together, still bound at the wrist. And that's where most retellings of most such stories end. It's better that they live on forever in a springtime afternoon, drunk on scrumpy cider and each other, than consider what happens next. A happy ending is easily spoiled by the truth that love is never simple nor easy. No human being is anything but perfectly flawed.

Perhaps he drinks. Perhaps she raises her hands or voice against him in anger. Perhaps there's an affair, and then another. Perhaps one leaves, walks up into the hills one autumn night, never to return. Perhaps a plague or the pox takes them both. Perhaps he's crippled by the plough, perhaps she's blinded by the needle and candlelight.

Perhaps there's just the mundane reality of dull work and grinding poverty. Calloused hands and hard labor and getting by, getting on with it. Simple pleasures and humble cruelties. An apple. A kiss. Good intentions, kind hearts, and dreams of something better. Love that fades to companionship.

Or perhaps she's pregnant before the leaves turn orange.

Perhaps the story ends, not with a wedding beneath a bright blue sky, but as all humans do: in tears and grief.

Perhaps it begins as humans do too, with screaming.

A young husband, a dead wife, and four sickly daughters, born a month too soon.

The village rallies around him, around them, of course. The mason has a fine milking goat, the best in the whole county, and the slaughter of two kids frees it to nurse. The carpenter works a full day and night to craft a rocking cradle fit for not one or two but __four__. There are grieving grandparents who find some measure of solace in gummy smiles and the old routine of infancy, and two dozen aunts and uncles and cousins with a day's ride to share the load. There's food to eat, wood to burn, water drawn fresh from the well. There's work to do too, out in the fields and the woods and the hills. And there are always eyes watching, ensuring that there is always enough of everything, and that nothing is ever, ever __too__ much.

And, slowly, as slowly as the tiny babes grow closer to health, the news spreads. Opportunity comes with it.

Twins, yes. There's a pair in every village, and sometimes two. Triplets, maybe. The old miller, down by the lake, remembers triplets, once, when he was a boy, and nobody has cause to doubt him too much when he's sober. Four, though, is unprecedented. There's not even a word for four. It's… __curious__. And attracts those such.

The common-folk come first, from miles around, to see for themselves. When they do, it's only courtesy to bring a small gift, say, of an apple or a ham or a still-good rag, or the chance to purchase a sturdy iron knife for a single copper piece. Tinkers and traders and the seasonal workers spread the news further afield than local gossip could manage, and when the girls are six months old and just starting to babble, their arrival begins to catch the attention of those in higher places.

A couple of the local lairds are nothing to get terribly excited about, but the Baroness herself arrives one day in a whirlwind of men and women and horses. She leaves with a cottage and a job awaiting a young man of good character, should he chance by with four weaned and walking daughters.

It's only a day later that the __other__ Baroness arrives in a whirlwind. She pays for the viewing with a small silver wand that glows without flame or heat, and they hide the rest of the children away.

A young man, four young daughters, and an unexpected bounty.

They're all named for flowers, when the family is sure that they'll live to use them, and not be stolen away in the night. And by the time they've seen their fifth summer, the four have been seen by all those who care to do so, from drudge to Duke. The novelty fades, the gifts slow and stop, the help trickles away, but they are, at least, no longer poor.

The young man, a young man of good character, finds the press of memory in the village too much without such novelty, and takes his family, takes his unusual treasures more than thirty miles from home to take a knee before the Baroness. He takes the Pound House on the edge of the castle town, a small cottage of stone and thatch, and takes down all that graced the walls before. He takes a small wage too, in copper and salt, and the leave to keep one in every five unmarked sheep he finds loose and wandering. The Hayward jokes he'll quickly have second flock of his own, and no-one to mind if they run as wild and free as his first.

The girls take to the change with some tears but overall little fuss. At five they're small and slender as whips, but bright and bright-eyed and never, ever lonely. They squabble and sing and play as all children do, and court the kinds of mischief one only can when one wears another's face. They answer to any name, and pay no mind when the townsfolk cross themselves or touch iron when they forget and chatter away in their own private language outside of the Pound House walls.

And if they remember little of their earlier celebrity and fleeting brush with wealth, they remember well the lessons of their grandparents and aunts and uncles, the midwives, the mason and the old, soden miller. There's an old boot nail in at least one pocket, and sometimes a horseshoe for luck or for throwing. They fight legendary battles with hazel sticks in the place of swords, and crown each other with twigs of rowan and all the pomp that muddied feet and skinned elbows can bring to bear. They always bar the shutters against the night, no matter the weather. They never once go with the beautiful strangers into the woods, no matter what magics or treasures they're promised.

It does them little good in the end.

The Pinder, his four daughters, and the most bitter winter of winters in memory.

The girls are ten, perhaps, or possibly eleven, growing like weeds and with appetites to match, when she comes. The night is still and frightfully clear, the moon lensed to an impossibly large and looming omen. The pinfold chuff and bleat and stamp the ground nervously. It's the only sound for miles of silence, until another of the old, rotten trees shatters with a crack worse than thunder under the weight of its ice-ridden boughs.

Footsteps. Soft as falling snow.

They're asleep as the door swings open, inwards, beckoning. When she crosses the threshold and finds nothing upon the walls, nothing buried beneath the earth to bar her way. When she finds nothing between her and their bed save a man and an iron knife once bought for the gift-price of a single copper.

Tumbled together like puppies beneath a mountain of blankets, they find find each other a far more effective shield against the frost than the fire. When the temperature drops, and falls further still, they only burrow deeper. Cluster closer.

The Queen, the Pinder and the knife strike a bargain by firelight.

Rousted from their slumber, dressed in their best and warmest and holding to each other tightly, the girls are ushered out the door and into the night. Sleep-addled and susceptible, they don't realize what's happening until their feet are upon the path and it's far too late to run, too cold for tears. There's not even time enough for a true moment of terror, just the briefest of tightening hands and burning inhalation before She smiles down upon them and Her beauty overwhelms them entirely.

They will never know what She offered.

They will never know what he asked.

They will only ever know, each of them, that he must have received it in full, to scream like that.


	2. The Name of the Rose

**Summary:** The Winter Queen has stripped her Court's knight of her mantle, her title, and her name. A rogue agent of Spring decides to intervene yet again.

oOo

 **The Name of the Rose**

The ever-green glades lining the outskirts of the Sanctuary of Spring were little more than a senseless blur around her as her would-be saviour rushed the two of them forward, but Pearl would have known the small offshoot of a bramble-hidden path anywhere. A last trifle of a gift, perhaps, that she would be allowed to return here, even for the smallest while, in her final moments.

She had displeased her one true liege and Queen, and now, favour lost, the mantle of the Winter Knight stripped from her, no ancient Court magic allowed to sustain her, she would die.

It was, of course, always going to happen. It was only ever a question of when. She was a toy at best, a tool at most, and her time in the Court of Spring had made the truth of her station much too clear.

A violent shiver tore through her, and Rose clutched her closer and ran faster in response. Her arms, where they met Pearl's skin, were the one remaining point of warmth in the world.

She felt the bite of all the wounds she had ever taken in all her centuries of service, then magicked away by her Queen's mercy as if they were nothing, now back with a vengeance and descending upon her in full force. From the nick of a blade on her left cheek from the most recent of endless, pointless but bloody show-duels for the pleasure of an uncaring Lady, to where blazing summer-bright arrows had once lodged in her thigh during a squabble between Courts - countless scars of countless years of countless feuds not her own. And the hunger, worst of all, the _hunger_ -

She was laid upon something soft and fresh and green, and Rose made quick work of the clasps on her cuirass. A considerable weight was gone from Pearl's chest along with the polished white-silver-blue armour, but drawing breath felt no less impossible.

Rose was clutching her hand in both of hers, and Pearl tried feebly to protest, to pull away, for surely they were too cold to be pleasant to hold for a creature of Spring. But Rose would not be dissuaded or deterred - and wasn't that somehow, since their very first meeting, always at the core of it all?

"My Pearl, my dearest Pearl. The Winter Queen will have no more power over you. I won't allow it."

 _And who are you,_ Pearl wanted to say, _who are you to deny Her? She does what she wants and she doesn't_ _want me anymore, I am of no use to her, she is done with me and I am_ ** _done_** _._

Forming the words proved too much effort. Her vision was fading away into dullness, into gray, and inching towards the inevitable white. White as the colour of winter, of dead things, pale and cold and rotting and quiet, and very, very final.

She struggled for another breath, and another, and-

 _Pearl breathed in with a pained hiss as the cool poultice touched her lacerated back. The icy-blue places where the thorns had dug in were painfully obvious on the backdrop of her forever snow-pale skin._

 _"Shhh, it's alright, it's alright," Rose was murmuring reassurances at her, gentle fingers - always so perfectly, carefully gentle - spreading the healing moss-mixture around. "This will help."_

 _And help it did, as always._

 _"You can't keep doing this, Rose, they'll find out, and then you'll-_ ** _She'll_ **_find out."_

 _"She won't. Our Queen is far too busy lounging on her throne and playing cruel games with her toys to notice anything amiss. And besides - in helping you I am but helping to prolong her amusement. Until…"_

 _The word, laden with promise and possibility, hung in the warm, humid, buzzing air between them. Pearl shook her head, and regretted doing so immediately. "You risk far, far too much for a toy, Rose. An old one, at that, and a loan."_

 _"Hush. Don't talk like that."_

 _Perhaps Rose had done it to win favour, at first - put her Queen's newest plaything back together and set herself apart from the other courtiers. Or perhaps she'd just been driven to pity at the miserable display of the famed Winter Knight brought low and made to beg before the assembled Court of Spring. It was a nice thought, if unlikely. None of the Fair Folk were given much to pity._

 _Whatever it had truly been, it had grown and changed over time like the trees Rose favoured, like the wild plants she kept in her endless flowerbeds. And it was putting her at risk._

 _"I know what I am!" Pearl cried. "And I know what you are. And it's madness to think that- that we could- but… I don't care what happens. I won't have them touch you, ever."_

 _Rose heard the unspoken_ not on my account _and smiled a wry, twisty smile. "They won't. Here."_

 _The sweet juice of the strawberry coated her lips and dripped down her chin and in any other circumstances the stickiness would have driven Pearl mad. But after the exhaustion of the latest tournament - the Winter Knight alone against the best and most promising of Spring's youngest! Come one, come all! - she couldn't find it in her to mind, and let the false, magic-imbued nectar fill her up. Rose had woven just a little_ more _into the fruit, as always - a word here and there as it had grown, a trick or two stolen from mortal farmers and mixed in with her magic to have it provide some measure of nourishment, unlike the empty, trick feasts the Courts preferred. It wasn't much, but for the time being it would be enough to sustain._

 _Pearl stretched, her head in Rose's lap and her languor-filled limbs resting easy in soft, young grass. A hand - familiar and well-loved - came down upon her forehead and ran through her hair in that soothing way Rose was so very proficient in._

 _The whole thing had been Winter's plan all along, perhaps - She of all knew Spring's nature. Knew enough to make a play of it - destroying a gift, even a loaned and still Winter-bound one, would cost the youngest of the Queens. Would, perhaps, incur a useful debt-_

 _They had talked about it at length, her and Rose, in their hidden little bramble-protected alcoves, in moments much like this one. Searching for something to serve as an escape, a way out of the ever-tightening noose made of Court rules and promises and contracts so ancient they'd faded from memory._

 _None of the usual ways would work. There was no family left to come bargain for Pearl or to try to rescue her on the seventh anniversary of the seventh anniversary of… whenever it was she had first eaten fae food and had her fate sealed. She had never been important enough for a knight to mount a rescue, or for a monarch to offer a prize. She was alone, and bound, and abandoned to the non-existent mercy of the two Queens who so casually traded her between themselves._

Not alone _, Rose promised,_ never alone _._

It was a promise oft-repeated, perfect and eternally binding, as such things were. Pearl had protested, the first time, though it had already been too late to undo much.

 _I am never going to leave you alone._

And so Rose was still with her, at the end of everything. Fleeing and deliberately spiting powers far beyond either of them, stealing the last few moments Pearl would ever have. Filling them with-

With-

"To give a thing a name is to give it power, and to call a thing by its name is to wield power over it."

Thoughts were coming in and out of focus, and Pearl grabbed at the trailing wisps of them as well as she could. But the clearer they seemed to be, the less sense they seemed to make. What was Rose _doing_? She sounded strained, with an undercurrent of what could only be called desperation in her deliberate, precise recitations.

"Unnamed and cast aside, I who have found you would name you."

Something in Pearl's chest snapped into place. There was a dampness on her forehead and running down her face, she could tell amidst the jumble of sensations. Tears, they had to be, Rose's precious tears, mixing with the all but dried remnants of her own, and she couldn't possibly be worth all this…

"I name you the Knight of the Roses. Brought from the very brink of eternal winter, forever free of its clutches. Bound to my service and no-one else's until I consider the tenets of our exchange satisfied."

With the words like a constant murmur in Pearl's ears, heavy with meaning and power, the world seemed to reorient itself again. She could breathe once more, and strength was slowly seeping into her still-chilled limbs. Rose helped her sit up, but kept her held against her side, head resting against a bare shoulder, soft and pink-blushed and _warm_. Warm in a way Pearl had long given up on ever feeling again.

The green under her now-feeling fingers was the softest, youngest grass - Rose did so love to call it to her favourite resting places, so many of which she'd shared with Pearl. She could pretend, almost, this was still one of their stolen little moments. She could, if she struggled through a slowly-fading barrier of unforgiving cold, recall the taste of the strawberries and the oddest mixture of _worried_ and _teasing_ Rose had been during those times.

There were roses, too, of course. Of course. Winding around them, protecting or containing - it was hard to tell which. As if half-asleep, Pearl allowed a thorn to prick her finger, and gazed with fascination at the droplet of blood, hot and red as she hadn't seen it in- perhaps ever-

 _-when she fell and scraped her knee and there were others calling to her, a shock of yellow, a quiet glimpse of blue, and a-_

Pearl shuddered, and wiped her hand. She had been truly - merely - human once, and that had never been a secret, but all that was long lost to ice and Winter. The thaw could only reach so far, and even then could only have it all melt into nothing, leaving a gaping emptiness behind, but _Rose…_

Rose had a way of filling everything to overflowing.

"I answer, as commanded. What would you have of me?" Pearl responded quietly, letting the blades of grass tickle her palm. She was but exchanging one mistress for another, perhaps, but this one she knew, she _knew_ , was kind, and surely she wouldn't-

There was a seriousness to Rose, suddenly, a kind Pearl had rarely seen her take on. Rose was playful and whimsical in ways utterly different from the cruel, spoiled Queen of her Court. Rose was the whirling and dancing of petals in true spring and the thought of floating, being carried away on warm yet still refreshing breezes - and being bound in servitude to someone like that was hard to even imagine.

"I ask you to call me by my true name and bind me."

"W-what?" Pearl could do nothing but splutter, eyes wide and uncomprehending. What was Rose playing at? Was it a game to her, too, after all?

But Rose refused to relent. "An exchange. I know yours. It's only fair that you also know mine. I refuse to have this power over you."

She didn't wait for Pearl to make another futile attempt at an argument she couldn't possibly win over a wish she was bound to grant, but merely leaned over and whispered in her ear. A name.

Her Name.

"The Rose Whose Beauty Enraptures Even As Her Thorns Pierce," Pearl recited, reverence dripping from every syllable. "I call you and bind you to my service."

Rose let her forehead rest against Pearl's for a moment, and smiled. "I answer to the name, as I must. What would you ask of me?"

"Rose, that isn't what-"

Rose's smirk turned light, playful, and Pearl felt her head spinning again.

"Shush. Ask a boon."

"A… I ask a…" Pearl's mouth was dry and her voice still a feeble croak, quiet enough that Rose had to draw even closer to hear. She had seen hundreds of mortals beg and plead and bargain, foolishly, always so, so very foolishly, their wishes always granted, never to their benefit. But Rose was- Rose-

"A kiss?" she finished meekly.

Rose beamed her sunbeam smile and leaned over, curtaining them both in sweet-scented pink. The press of her lips was thawing, like a final binding seal snapping into place, and like the sudden spring of long-lost and long-forgotten freedom.

They were even now, somehow - Rose claimed they were, all exchanges completed, all dues paid - but Pearl's head still felt cotton-filled and spinning and she'd lost all count - but she trusted Rose, she trusted her with so much, with _everything_ , and trust had never been a currency the Courts dealt in.

There was a stream close to their small sanctuary, flowing into a mirror-pond. Rose brought the both of them over, and Pearl let the pleasant coolness of the water wash over her, so unlike the arresting cold that had been the one thing coursing through her mere moments ago. She caught sight of her own reflection, and stared, a storm of feelings welling up inside her.

Her skin was still bleached pure white, like snow - some things could never be undone, and should never be forgotten. But her hair was pink like a fresh rosebud, as new as she could ever hope to be. And, in all her newfound lack of bonds save for those of gratitude and love, quite lost.

"What… what do I do now?"

It was a question for herself just as much as for Rose - again running gentle, soothing fingers through her hair - just as much as for the world. They remained as they were for a long while, holding each other close, until Rose finally broke the silence.

"Whatever you want."


	3. Fusion, Freedom, Reinvention

**Summary:** _They met under the stars, and that was the start of everything- stealing glances, strolling through the forest, kissing under the moonlight._

 _Theirs is a fairy tale romance- of magic and glamour, of debts and blood, of love and sacrifice._

 **Fusion, Freedom, Reinvention**

They first met at mid-autumn, a time of truce for their two Courts.

Under the full moon, the Sovereigns of Summer and the Witnesses of Winter met in a stone circle upon the moors. Space was malleable there, and time too; those who passed the rocks found themselves in a field which seemed to stretch for infinity, its ground carpeted in crisp fallen leaves, the night air lit by the glow of will-o-the-wisps.

Ruby was a soldier, her skin like embers, her hair flames.

Sapphire was a seer, her skin frosted, her single eye a crystal of ice.

Fae are not clumsy. They are elegant by nature, light on their feet, as insubstantial as air.

Somehow, though, Ruby collided with Sapphire.

There was a hush.

A silence which was not just the absence of sound, but a complete vacuum of it.

Sapphire stared down at herself, at where some of her skin had melted and boiled away.

"My apologies," Ruby stammered, through fear and half-frozen lips.

"It was determined," Sapphire said, and waved it off. Already, the frost was creeping back up her skin.

The vacuum filled in, as all at once the Gentry continued on with their business. The soldier and the seer watched each other for one more moment, and then they too, carried on.

Fae do not say thank you. Those words are too shallow a thing- just a trinket, a distraction behind which to hide.

Nonetheless, Ruby was grateful. Sapphire could have had her executed with a word. Instead, she had spared her.

There was a debt there, and debts have to be repaid.

* * *

They met again at the next truce, at mid-spring. Again it was held at the same rock circle upon the moors. Now the ground beneath their feet had sprung fresh new grass, and the air thrummed with the call of cicadas.

Someone had brought human musicians for entertainment. With the insect buzz as the beat, their flute and fiddle wove a tune that captivated the Fair Folk, and set them all to dancing. The Fae spun across the grass, exchanging partners as they went. There was a pattern, but one too subtle and too complex to be determined by mortal eyes, all politics and power, pulling at the dancers as the moon pulled at the tides.

Ruby sought Sapphire out. A single dance was not worth the price of a life, but it would at least begin to settle the score.

"Would you like a dance?" Ruby asked, bowing deep.

Sapphire considered for a moment, the curtsied in return. "I would."

They orbited each other, careful not to touch. Still, they could _feel_ one another, the burn, the chill.

The music got faster, and the dancing sped to match.

It was dizzying, and delightful, but despite it all, Ruby found herself still catching glimpses of the human musicians. Her eyes felt pulled towards them. They were in a sorry state. The fiddle player's fingers were raw, the blood dripping down his bow onto the new earth below. He was the luckier of the two. The woodwind player's flute had grown into her skin; already her face was covered in bark, leaves sprouting where her eyes should have been. It should have been amusing, and yet…

Ruby only just bit back a wince.

Sapphire saw the sympathy on her face. Knew the trouble that would be inflicted upon her, if another member of the Courts saw that sympathy.

"Look at me," Sapphire said, and pulled Ruby's gaze to her. "Keep your eyes on me."

So Ruby did. She was an easier thing to look at, anyway. Sapphire was as beautiful as the freshly fallen snow.

And for her part, Sapphire felt herself drawn towards Ruby like a moth to the flame.

* * *

And so it went, through the seasons, the years, the decades. Each autumn and spring, the Courts of Summer and Winter would come to a truce, and Ruby and Sapphire would seek each other out.

If there was a chance, they would dance.

* * *

In time, even that was not enough.

They found other ways to meet, away from other Fae eyes. Sapphire would See into the future, found the times she would not be missed. Ruby would wait until her betters were occupied, by the Hunt or other such proceedings, and sneak away.

They'd meet in forested groves; at the edges of oceans; on mountain peaks.

They learned to weave better glamours, ones which better hid their natures. That dampened Ruby's flames, and thawed Sapphire's ice. It allowed them to pass through the world unimpeded, helped keep them hidden from watchful eyes. It let them grow closer, too. Disguised, the two could bare each other's touch for at least a few moments.

Unbound by Court politics, Court ceremony, Court hierarchy, they could speak freely. They discussed whatever topics crossed their minds, like clouds drifting through the sky. Their lives. The seasons. Animals. Humans.

They were fascinated by humans, as all Fae were. They could not stop themselves from visiting human townships, any more than water could stop itself from rolling down hills.

They had to be careful. Humans were wary of the Fair Folk- and they were right to be wary, both of them thought. They kept their towns well warded. Even in human guise, the pair were careful to avoid iron, and hazel, and rowan, and bread, and the ringing of bells at twilight.

They were careful, too, not to let their natures overwhelm themselves. To not have Ruby's sparks go wild, and leave a barn burned down. To not have Sapphire's frost encroach, and leave the crops dead in their fields.

At first, it was merely practical. The Courts would not care about such destruction- they'd revel in it, in fact- but they would care about the nature of the perpetrators, if they caught wind. A lowly, untitled foot-soldier and a high seer? That was scandalous enough, though not unheard of. But to take a lover from an opposing court? Treason. It would never be tolerated, more than reason for anyone, fae or mortal, to extract a very high price indeed for the keeping of such a secret

Then, it was indulgent. Humans were curious creatures, delightful to watch. Ruby liked to see their children playing in the streets, shrieking and laughing with unbridled delight. Sapphire liked to watch the women weaving, creating cloth from wool, like a conjuring. Both of them loved human songs, and sought out any chance to hear them.

Then, it was indulgent. The humans had their own lives, their own personal concerns, their own private dramas. They were intriguing despite how small, blind and feeble they were- or perhaps because of that. They were like characters in a play. The farmer's wife, her belly swelling with child. The widowed midwife who tended to her. The carpenter's apprentice. The barman. The tailor. The goatherd.

Some of the humans left gifts for the Fair Folk- offerings of milk, butter, and food. These were not the treats of fae, not sparkling wine made from starlight, not pastries spun from rainbows, not the sweet fruits that grew from the trees of the other worlds. They were mortal meals, made of meat, and of fat, and of grain, and they filled the Fae up as nothing had before.

They left gifts for the humans, in exchange. A charm on a wine cellar, to keep it cool, even in the height of summer. A spell on a hearth to keep it hot, even in the depths of winter. And together, a casting of their very own, to keep the blight at bay.

* * *

Sapphire and Ruby spied uponafter all of the humans, but their favourites were most certainly the young lovers.

They followed the lovers, hiding from them using charms of invisibility, or else disguising themselves as birds, or frogs, or hounds. Followed them through the town square; flew above them as they wandered the fields; watched them at night from the windows. Saw the tender ways they touched one another. The gifts they exchanged freely, without any expectation of returns. The compliments they whispered in each others ears. Sweet nothings, the humans called them. Oaths and promises which were not binding, spoken only for delight.

Ruby and Sapphire wished they could do the same.

* * *

Centuries and centuries, these meetings had been going, when the words were spoken.

"I love you," Ruby pledged.

"I love you too," Sapphire returned.

And then they cried into each other's arms, because The Fair Folk cannot lie, so they knew these words were true.

* * *

They were discovered soon after.

They did not know how. Perhaps some sprite had spied them, and reported it to gain favour. Perhaps their glamour had failed at a key moment. Perhaps the Court had stolen some human from the village, who'd let something slip. Perhaps one of the Queens had simply felt the magical imprint the pair had left behind in their wanderings.

All they knew was that when the next Spring Truce came, there was no feasting, no songs, no dancing.

The two were dragged to the centre of the Stone Circle, the Gentry of both Courts gathered around, cheering, shouting, jeering, taunting.

"Traitors!" they cried.

"Spies!" they yelled.

"Defilers!" they hooted.

"Silence!" ordered two voices, one crackling with heat and the other with cold.

The Queens appeared before their Courts.

They sat in their thrones. Summer's was made of brambles that shone like burnished gold. The ripest of berries hung among the thorns. Winter's was carved from ice, and beneath the surface one could see indistinct shapes moving.

Already thrown to the ground, Ruby and Sapphire bowed to their lieges.

"What have you done?" Summer demanded.

Ruby explained.

Neither Queen understood.

"Why did you do this?" Winter demanded.

Sapphire explained.

Neither Queen understood.

The last question the Queen's asked in unison: "Will you renounce one another?"

Ruby and Sapphire locked eyes. The Fair Folk cannot lie.

Together, they answered: "No."

Still neither Queen understood.

And so they could not allow it to stand at all.

"Warrior Who Charges Headfirst Into The Blizzard," said Summer, "get to your feet."

Bound by her True Name, Ruby stood.

"Seeker and Keeper of the Spark of Truth," said Winter, "rise."

Bound by her True Name, Sapphire stood.

The Queens had created them, and so knew their true natures, their True Names. Those Names wielded power, and when spoken, direct demands could not be denied.

And the Queens demanded that that night, when the moon was at its peak, that Ruby must kill Sapphire, and that Sapphire must kill Ruby. And all would see what was to become of those that betrayed the intended order.

* * *

The sun was setting.

Ruby and Sapphire were not placed in cages, were not locked away. They was no way to escape, ringed as they were by Courtesans on all sides. They were allowed to stay together. To share in the agony until it reached the inevitable time when they would be forced to end each other.

"There must be some way," Ruby said, her voice a fierce, desperate whisper.

"There is none," Sapphire said, resigned. She could See the future in front of her, solid as ice. There were three possibilities. Sapphire could kill Ruby. Ruby could kill Sapphire. Or both would kill each other at the same time.

Ruby cried, her tears boiling.

Sapphire cried, her tears freezing.

Those Kindly Ones around them laughed.

* * *

"There has to be _something_ ," Ruby said, as the sky turned purple, and the moon began to rise.

Sapphire shook her head. "We cannot deny our Names."

Ruby stared down at her hands, shaking.

Then the answer came to her.

She looked up, met Sapphire's eye, and said, "What if they were not our Names?'

* * *

The moon climbed higher and higher in the sky, the time drawing closer.

It was not a dark moon. It was not a new moon, a single crescent of silver. Nor was it a full. It was in the most powerful phase of all.

Half dark, half light.

* * *

The Queens returned, and the Fae encircling the two lovers drawing nearer. Their smiles were as sharp as knives, and their eyes glinted like wildcats', ten times as cruel.

The lovers stood up.

None of the onlookers spoke, waiting to see what would happen.

Sapphire held out her hands, and Ruby took them.

There was no glamour here, no magic concealing their true natures, dampening them. The heat burned through Sapphire's skin, melting it. Instantly it boiled away, and Sapphire could all but stop herself from crying out in pain. Ruby too was rocked, as Sapphire's fingers grew into long icicles, bursting through her gloves and piercing into Ruby's flesh, embedding themselves there. She struggled to stay on her feet, as though buffeted by a winter wind.

Through the pain, they spoke.

"Seeker and Keeper of the Spark of Truth," said Warrior Who Charges Headfirst Into The Blizzard, "I pledge myself to you, wholly and completely. I give you my power, to use however you wish."

"Warrior Who Charges Headfirst Into The Blizzard," said Seeker and Keeper of the Spark of Truth, "I pledge myself to you as well, wholly and completely. I give to you my power, to use however you wish."

The Gentry were screaming now, crying with voices that howled like wolves, but all the lovers could hear were each other's voices. All they could see was each other's faces. They pressed themselves close, feeling their skin freeze and boil and melt, and the pain was exquisite.

The next part, they spoke unison: " _Let me change you, and in doing so, be changed myself. For now and forever. \_ "

Lightning flashed.

* * *

The Faerie that stood there was something entirely new.

Her legs were too long, her fists too large, her hips too wide, her waist too small. Her chill had been softened by spring; her heat tempered by autumn. She glowed, lightning racing up and down her body, and so none could touch her, unless she permitted it. She had three eyes, and with them, she saw the Kindly Ones around her for what they truly were.

Most Fae turned their eyes away, unable to bear the sight.

The Queens of Summer and Winter cried out to the new one. Ordered the new one to stop. To halt. To destroy themselves- herself- there and then.

But the Names they called out were not hers. Not anymore. And she would not be bound by them.

So The One Who Forged Herself Of Love ran from the Courts, and did not look back.


	4. By My Own Hand or None

**Summary:** _The cost of freeing Pearl from the Winter Queen is a steep one, but one Pearl and Rose have met, without hesitation, every year for over five thousand years. For the first time since it all began, Rose is not with her, Rose's power is not there to bolster her, and Pearl is no longer certain that she will be able to pay what she must._

oOo

 **By My Own Hand Or None**

It was the first time she'd done this alone.

In truth, she wasn't entirely sure that it would work without Rose. How could anything, even the fierce light of the midday sun, banish this chill from her bones, in a world without Rose? But Rose had been certain that it would still work with her gone. Moreover, Rose had extracted a promise from her, a promise binding and true and all-too well-worded, that she would protect her son, that she would guide him and teach him the ways and secrets of her people. That she would do all in her ability, short of causing him greater harm, to prevent him from coming under the power, into the 'favour' of one of the Queens or their Court.

The thought of the squalling, pink-skinned babe, with his father's nose and his father's ears and his mother's eyes, made the sun seem even further away. Her heart was wreathed in hoarfrost. And yet...

And yet.

The place had never mattered. It was only the timing, the means. In worse days, in times of war and worry and strife, they had broken bread in bivouacs and stolen salt from the sea. The blood of a fallen soldier on the edge of a battlefield worked just as well, worked _better_ than that of a rabbit or a deer fed a year of kindness before slaughter. But they - but _she_ had always preferred to come back here, back to the floating islands, back to the place where it had all begun and ended too. It felt... fitting.

Pearl knelt, blue-tipped fingers trembling as she undid the knot and the silken bundle unfurled. A loaf of bread, freshly made by her own two hands, from barley to leaven to baking. A small bottle of oil and a pinch of salt, plain and unadulterated and once much harder to find than by a quick trip to the supermarket. A rabbit, spelled to sleep, fur soft and warm, heart beating beneath her hand too fast to count. Two knives. A band of rowan set with iron, cold-forged and rust-free, a circlet one might have mistaken for a crown.

Her freedom, laid out upon yellowing silk.

Would that everything in her life were so clear.

She cut the bread carefully and adorned each piece with oil and salt. The oil was not strictly necessary, but she'd found it helped with the real challenge: breaking her fast of six months. For all that her mouth watered at the sight, the smell, the crusty crackle of fresh bread, her stomach churned and her throat seized and her mind cast itself back to the improbable feasts of fantasy and the flavours that burst like dying stars upon your tongue. But that had been false. Fantasy. _Fae_. _This_ was real bread, real salt and oil. Even if it tasted as the ash of her winter meal, it was necessary to sustain her for another year.

Bound by her promise, the bread vanished, bite by bite, and she refused to be sick from it.

When she was done, she rose and disrobed, standing in the midday sun as bare and defenseless as the forgotten day she had been born. She soothed the rabbit into deeper slumber, deep enough that it would not feel the pain of her breaking its neck with a quick, precise snap, nor that of her knife piercing its hide, hot blood searing her fingers and painting them red. She quashed the pang of regret and sympathy for a creature used to serve the needs of another, and anointed herself in heartsblood as she had first been shown: her cheeks, her breasts, her belly, her throat.

Her heart.

Only then did she reach down for the circlet, taking it in bloodied hands that blistered at the touch of wood and iron, raising it to encapsulate the solstice sun. She closed her eyes and ignored the burn, breathed in deep and spoke the words of five thousand solstices before.

"My name," she said slowly, clearly, "is the Knight of the Roses. I am forged of iron. I am quenched in blood. I am tempered by winter. I call no-one my master. Only those who speak my name in knowing may ask any favour of me."

She lowered the circlet to her brow.

In that moment, she was _renewed_ , ice banished from her veins, snow from her skin, frost from her heart. She was _free_ , free of Winter, free of the Court, of the Queen, the life of glamour and cruelty and agonising beauty. She was _between_ , iron on her skin without burning, hunger in her belly that did not need sating. Earth beneath her feet, magic beneath her skin, light and air all around.

Not fae. But not human either. Lesser, and yet more than either could ever be.

Crowned by her own hand, standing tall and slender and bloodied at the very height of the summer sun, she wept. She wept in choking silence and despair as the sun banished the chill from her bones and brought light and life and humanity back to her soul for another year.

Rose had been certain it would still work with her gone.

Pearl had hoped it wouldn't.


	5. Changeling

**Summary:** _There were once two babies: a human and a faerie. One was sweet and cute as could be; the other was weak and wild. The two were switched, exchanged, and left to grow up in the other's world._

 _This is one of their stories._

* * *

 **Changeling**

There was once a sweet human baby.

She was as cute as they came. Chubby and thick-limbed, big, shiny amber eyes, blonde hair like gold. Healthy and strong. Well behaved, too. Rarely fussed or cried, which was a relief for her harried parents.

* * *

There was once a strange Fae baby.

All Fae babies are strange. She was chubby, but tiny too, with purplish skin, faded-grey hair, and sharp teeth that drew blood from her mother's breasts. Sickly and weak. An obvious troublemaker. Laughed and cried in equal measure, and her wails would have driven her human mother to exhaustion, if she'd had the capacity anymore.

* * *

Spring liked babies.

It was one of her defining characteristics. She was the season of birth. Of fresh green growth, of flowers on trees, of birds and bees, of fawns on unsteady legs taking their first tentative steps.

She loved to take walks through the mortal world, to see the changes She had brought. She'd stroke the leaves of new trees, breathe deep the scent of flowers, cradle newborn bunnies and crocodiles and elephants. She loved the children born into her own Court as well, all the more because they were so rare. Most Fae had come into existence with the world itself, and new ones were few and far in between.

That was the main reason Spring collected humans, especially young maidens. For their fine music and art, of course, but mostly for their babies. She liked to play with them, to tickle their tummies, to hear them scream when she tossed them in the air and when they hit the ground.

Despite all appearances, Spring was not soft. Spring was practical. Not all babies survived: that was a fact of life. Baby birds fell out of trees. Baby bunnies were snatched up in the jaws of hawks. Fawns were taken down by wolves. And if they were not, then the wolves' own pups would starve.

Survival of the fittest. It was only nature.

Spring looked down at the little Faeling, purple-skinned and sharp-toothed, and knew she was not fit.

Worse, knew she was not _fun_.

She wanted someone better. So she sent her people out to find a replacement.

* * *

The faeries found the sweet human baby, the one given the name Cristal by her parents. Said parents were busy, that day. The father was in the forest, chopping wood for the fire. The mother was doing the washing in the yard. The elder siblings were about, half-working, half-playing. None were minding the baby, now a toddler, walking around on strong, stubby legs. She was safe enough, they were all sure.

Cristal had been taught not to wander off, but she caught sight of something sparkly in the woods, and could not help herself. For once in her young life, she disobeyed. In the bushes she found a person with wings like a butterfly, eyes like dewdrops, and a smile like diamonds. They said they were a Faerie.

The Faerie stole the human toddler. Took her clothes, and put them on the Fae toddler instead. Cast a glamour on the Fae child: purple skin became cream, grey hair became gold, sharp teeth became rounded. A perfect reflection.

They sent the weakling off to the human family on trembling legs and took the strong, human toddler to their Court.

Spring loved her.

* * *

To the human family, Cristal seemed to transform overnight.

Where once she had slept soundly through the nights, now she refused to rest, running around and around their small cottage, yelling and screaming. Whenever they took her into town, she became a bother there as well. Never waiting, talking too loudly, getting her hands into everything, frightening the horses. She became a picky eater, grousing about bread being boring, food being too salty. Yet at the same time, it seemed she'd stick practically anything in her mouth: dirt, feathers, sticks, rocks.

The parents were frustrated but didn't think much of it. They'd raised three other children. They went through odd phases as they got older. Cristal would grow out of it.

They hoped.

In some ways, she did. Cristal learned from the yellings, the spankings, the cruel looks, to stop the tantrums. To be quiet. To not rock back and forth. To hide her odd snacks. She didn't always succeed, but she tried, oh she _tried_ , to be a good daughter.

But other oddities began to be noticed.

She got sick, afflicted by strange rashes that no one could explain. She hated the sound of church bells, which were **loud** , much too loud, forcing her to cover her ears. She picked too many fights with the village boys, fights that a little, weakling girl by no rights should win. But win she did, wearing her bruises with pride. She got lashed for misbehaviour and stopped, instead muttering dark things under her breath. The targets of her ire seemed tormented by bad luck: broken legs, sick livestock, plagues of pimples. The town's children avoided her, and even her own siblings were wary of her. She preferred the company of animals to humans.

Sometimes, people said, she looked _odd_. If you caught her out of the corner of her eyes- purple skin, sharp teeth, red eyes.

Whispers began. Rumors.

 _Witch. Demon-spawn._ ** _Changeling._**

The parents scoffed; said the villagers were superstitious fools jumping at shadows.

But in private, they exchanged worried looks and wondered.

* * *

The girl now called Cristal made it to nearly seven years before something broke.

It was evening, and she was dallying in her chores. The grain in her satchel was heavy, her feet were tired, and she'd stumbled upon her favourite cat in the town square on her way back from the mill. She'd grabbed a stick, and was playing with it, dragging the stick through the dirt, hooting and hollering while the cat tried to catch it.

Someone behind her laughed.

"Playing with your own kind, huh?!" came the cackle from the blacksmith's apprentice.

"Better than _your_ kind," the girl snarled back at him. And for a moment, she looked _wrong_ : her eyes slitted and amber, her face furry, her teeth sharp. A cat.

The boy yelped, and the girl laughed, happy to see the fear on his face.

On instinct, the apprentice reached into a pouch at his belt, and brought out a handful of nails. He flung them at the girl.

She yelped, and then screamed as they hit her. They hurt, hurt far more than they should have. It wasn't just that they dug into her skin; they seemed to burn, searing her. Those rashes she'd gotten, whenever she'd tried to help cook or tend to the fire- they were here, and they _hurt_.

The boy had acted on fear; now he acted on triumph, pulling out more and more of the nails he'd made, flinging them at the girl, who screamed and tried to bat them away with little success. Suddenly she felt tired, so tired, and her skin was burning. Her eyes filled with tears; she couldn't _see_.

People's attention was drawn to the commotion. Though Cristal was half-blind, she heard the gasps of shock, of fear.

She heard the blacksmith's apprentice shout, "Demon!"

She heard others take up the cry.

The nails had stopped coming, and her eyes became clear enough to see. All around her, people were staring; farmers, bakers, the miller, the midwife, children and elderly alike. The cat at her side had its back arched, claws out, and was hissing at all of them.

Cristal didn't ask, didn't wait. She just picked up her bag of grain and _ran_.

She ran and ran and ran until she reached her home. She flung open the door and rushed in, shaking for breath. Her mother heard her panic, and began to say, "What is wrong? You did not get into a fight again, did you-?"

But then she turned, and the mother stopped.

Cristal saw the shock on her face. The fear.

"Maman?"

The woman held her hands to her breast, and asked in a trembling voice, "What are you?"

It was only then the girl looked down, and was met with an unfamiliar body. Her creamy skin was gone, replaced with a deep purple, as though her whole body was a bruise. Her arm seemed at the same time too chubby and too short. She dropped her satchel and raised her hand. At each finger was a long, wicked claw.

"What has happened to me?" she cried. "Maman? _What has happened?!_ "

"I am not your maman!"

By then the rest of the family was there, having heard the commotion- the girl spun around, and saw the same horror on all their faces. Her Papa's expression was hard. One of her sisters was shaking her head. One of her brothers was reaching for his knife. Her last brother, who was just two years older, was the only one to look sad. There were tears in his eyes when he said, "Run. Run, before they catch you!"

* * *

So the girl ran again, this time away from home, into the forest.

As she ran, she tripped and fell. She got up, but this time, stayed on four legs. It felt easier like this. She imagined herself as her favourite black cat, light and lithe on her feet.

She could hear people behind her. A low, angry murmur, the occasional yell rising above it all, and she could feel her heart thudding in her chest.

It was dark. It was dark, but somehow she could see.

Far scarier than the darkness were the lights. Torches, flames, casting strange shadows through the trees.

She was tired. Her feet hurt. They were catching up to her. She smelled iron. Weapons.

Close. So close now.

But somehow, they didn't catch her. Every time a hunter got close, something stopped them. A stray root where they hadn't seen one. A low-hanging branch throwing them off their horse. An unexpected wind blowing out their torch, leaving them blind.

And the girl ran on.

* * *

In the darkness, the girl found a cave.

It smelled of stone, of water, of must, of blood, of something animalistic. Something in the back of her mind recognised that scent- wolf.

She went into the cave anyway. Wolves, she thought, she could deal with. It was the humans- her fellow villagers, her family- who scared her now. She just wanted to hide away in the hole and be safe. Maybe the wolves would protect her.

But the cave was empty. There were signs that it had been a den once, but the wolf pack had clearly moved on.

The girl curled up, too tired to keep running. She closed her eyes and listened, hearing the stamp of boots, the baying of horses and barking of dogs, the crackle of fire, and the shouts, the shouts. " _Find the demon! Slay her! Cast her away!_ "

And then a new sound. Perhaps one could call it a song, except it was too discordant to be considered music. It sounded like- like the burning of the summer sun, like the rush of the autumn rain, like the chill of the winter wind. It started quiet, then grew louder and louder and louder-

Through shut eyelids, the girl saw light: yellow and blue and white…

And then she saw and heard nothing as she fell into a deep, deep slumber.

When the human hunters eventually searched the cave, there was nothing but rock and stone inside.

* * *

Time passed, and the magic wore off.

The girl woke up, slowly, unsteadily. Her whole body was stiff, stiff. Her eyes felt glued shut. Her arms and legs felt heavy, and took immense effort to stretch.

Finally, she managed to sit up. She blinked. Daylight streamed through the cave. All signs of the humans were gone, as was the smell of wolf.

She clenched her hand, her sharp nails digging into her palm. Where was she to go now?

Her stomach gurgled. She was hungry. She picked up some dried leaves from the cave floor, and shoved them into her mouth. Swallowed. That helped a bit. She rocked back and forth, as she did when she was thinking.

She couldn't stay there. What if the hunters returned?

Stumbling out into the sunlight, she found the forest looked different. She hadn't been able to pay much attention, in the darkness, with the running, but she could have sworn the trees were in different positions. She wasn't entirely sure which direction lead to the place she had called home. She'd been running to the West, she thought, so after a moment's consideration, decided to continue in that direction.

Following the path of the sun, it wasn't long- an hour, perhaps- before she reached the forest's edge. She had come to the flat stretch of land, and she stared out at it, perplexed.

It looked like it should have been a field, of grass or crops. Instead, it was filled with nothing but churned mud. It was hard to tell, but it looked like someone had dug long, snaking channels into the earth, piling it into mounds. The girl had seen something like that at a nearby river which sometimes flooded, except these channels were topped with sharp, pointed wire, more of it and more thinly drawn than she had ever seen.

Why would anyone do such a thing?

She lurked in the bushes, getting as close as she could, but still, she could not understand. Finally, overcome with curiosity, she stepped out to investigate.

 _BANG!_

The girl leapt into the air, so startled she was by the noise. But it didn't stop- _BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!_

The sound blocked everything else, the air suddenly filled with the smell of smoke and fire, and things were flying, flying everywhere. Something grazed the girl in the cheek, and it burned, **_seared_**.

She heard people yelling, and she moved on pure instinct, leaping into the nearest channel, hands to her cheek, eyes threatening tears again.

She looked up, and found herself surrounded by strange men. They were pointing bizarre metal sticks at her.

"Don't hurt me!" she cried, throwing up her hands. "Please!"

(If they did, if they tried, she wouldn't go down easy, she'd already decided. She'd see what her new claws could do.)

But the men didn't try to hurt her. They didn't even look angry. They were talking- some yelling, some muttering, but mostly, they just seemed confused.

The girl was confused too. Why were they not hurting her? She glanced down at herself, and saw she'd changed back. Her ugly purple skin returned to its proper cream and her nails were short and neatly filed. She was even wearing her best Sunday dress, which made no sense; she had not been before.

She was confused, too, by the men's speech. It sounded like French, but all wrong. The words, the grammar, the accents.

One man crouched down low, spoke slowly and deliberately. " _Je suis Pierre,_ " he said, pointing at his chest, and strange language or not, the girl understood. " _Tu t'appelles comment_ _?_ "

The girl didn't answer, so the man and his fellows tried again and again, eventually resorting to just pointing at her, and repeating, " _Prénom? Prénom?_ "

The girl understood this, at least. She simply did not know how to answer. As far as she could remember, she'd always been called Cristal. But then her maman had yelled at her, said she was not her daughter, and her family had chased her out of the house, hunted her and-

\- no. She didn't want to be Cristal.

Not anymore.

* * *

The nameless girl was still scared.

She had no idea where she was. The loud bangs continued for some time, then stopped, aside from the occasional one that would go off with no warning. They came from the strange sticks many of the men carried, which shot out fire and metal. Weapons, clearly.

The girl did not like them. Not because they were weapons- she quite liked weapons, all told- but because if she touched them, they burned her hand.

The men were loud, and spoke strangely, and dressed oddly, but they were kind to her. They all lived underground, in dark, damp rooms, but they found her a bed that was reasonably dry and bundled up. Someone came to touch her cheek; she hissed at him, and he backed away. He came back later, hands up, holding a bandage, and gestured that he just wanted to help heal her blistered hands and face. She let him. Another man brought her a bowl filled with a soup. It was plain and runny, but it was hot, and she ate it gratefully.

A little later, another man, his face all sooty, gestured for her to hold open her palm. After a little hesitation, she did. He put a brown square on it. He mimed eating it.

The girl blinked. She liked dirt- always had- but a grown up had never told her to eat it. She was tempted not to, just to be contrary.

But she did, and it was the sweetest thing she had ever tasted.

" _Chocolat_ ," the man said.

"Chocolat," the girl repeated, and he grinned at her.

That night she curled up in a bunk dug into an underground trench, head on chocolat-man's lap, and slept soundly.

* * *

The tale of the Mystery Girl of the Trenches spread like wildfire. First through the French troops, then into the French press, and then through the newspapers of all the allied nations. Strange child appears out of nowhere in No Man's Land. Just barely survived by ducking into a nearby trench. Doesn't seem to speak a word of proper, modern French, but sweet as can be, regardless. Taken in by a friendly division. It was a feel good story, during a war in which there were very few to go around.

Everyone knew the front lines of the Great War was no place for such a young child. Attempts were made to bring her somewhere safer, but none of them succeeded. Trucks would break down. Agents coming to collect the girl would get lost or end up in the wrong place. Sometimes people looking for her suddenly flat out forgot what it was they were doing. Over time, the soldiers grew more and more resistant to the idea of her leaving, of her being taken away. She was fun to be around, playful, a single bright spot in their existence of muck and poor food and the constant threat of death. They didn't want to let go of her.

This suited the girl perfectly. She didn't want to let go of them, either.

* * *

Not everyone could be so easily waylaid.

After some months, three strangers appeared in the girl's trench. They were all women, which was what made them stand out. There weren't many women in this war. And the few women the girl had seen around here wore skirts, but these ones wore pants, like the men. One of them was black, as well. The only black people she'd ever seen before were the 'Harlem Hellfighters,' but she had never seen this lady among them, which made her a source of immediate curiosity.

But there was something else about them, too. When she caught sight of them out of the corner of her eye, their forms seemed to flicker.

They noticed the girl right away. Strode towards her. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise up.

They had come to take her away. The girl knew it. She also knew that no one would let them. Her friends, the soldiers, would stop them.

But they didn't. It was like they didn't even notice the women.

"Pierre! Pierre!" the girl called, but her friend just stared past her, smiling blankly into empty air.

The girl backed away.

"Do not be afraid," said one woman, the really tall one with big, curly hair. That made the girl stop. She spoke the right language. French. _Her_ French.

"How did you get here?" asked next woman, the thin one, in the same French.

"Why should I tell you?" the girl demanded, crossing her arms.

"Because we can't have you hurting anyone," said the black woman, while at the same time, the big one said, "Because we're here to help you."

The girl narrowed her eyes.

The thin woman came and asked, "Do you know what you are?"

"What kinda question is that?" said the girl.

The three women exchanged looks.

"You are not human," said the black one.

 _Yes I am_ , the girl wanted to say, but the words stuck on her tongue. She was fairly certain that would be a lie.

The thin woman waved a hand. It felt like a cold bucket of water had been dumped on her head. When she looked, back was her horrible, demonic appearance. She flinched, waiting for the screams, the attacks- but none came.

The soldiers were not looking at her. They were not looking anywhere. They were staring into space, wearing odd, vacant smiles, just like Pierre. She ran to the nearest man- the one who had given her chocolat- and shook him, but he didn't even seem to notice.

"What did you do to them?" the girl demanded, terrified.

"They are not hurt," the big one promised.

"We will let them go," the thin one assured.

"We just need to talk," the black one said.

And then they changed.

The big one, who said to call her Rose, wore a dress of white. Her hair was not hair at all, but a cascade of flower petals that seemed to blow in an unfelt breeze. The thin one, who said to call her Pearl, had skin so white it looked like freshly fallen snow, and eyes misty grey all the way through. The black one, who said to call her Garnet, had three eyes, each a different color, and lightning danced around her fingers.

They did not ask the girl her name.

She thought she should be scared of them, and yet, she was not.

They explained things to her. They said she was not wrong, demonic, or evil. They said she was Fae, just like them. They asked where she had come from, for, "There are not many Fae left on this plane."

So the girl told her story, and they listened, solemn and serious. They got more serious still when she described the strange light, the song, the sleep. They said it was a powerful curse. They said she had been lucky that it had not hurt her too badly. That in a way, it had protected her. That it had merely put her in a stasis for many hundreds and hundreds of years.

This made a lot of sense to the girl and explained so much. Why people spoke different, dressed different, and could make such strange things from metal. In a way, it felt like she had already knew.

The three women said they could help her. Teach her. Keep her safe.

"It's dangerous for you here," said Rose, tears pouring down her face. She wiped them off with a hand, and pressed it to the girl's shoulder. She was covered in rashes, all over; they were impossible to avoid in a place so oozing with metal. But at the damp touch, all those sores faded away.

The girl knew in her heart of hearts they were telling the truth. "But… that means I would have to leave them."

The three Fae followed her gaze as she looked around at the men who had taken her in.

"You truly care for them, I see," Garnet said.

"Yes," said the girl.

"You wouldn't want them hurt, would you?" Pearl said.

"No," said the girl.

"And do you want to help others like them? The good humans?" Rose said.

The girl thought this over. The memory of the hunters was still fresh in the mind. But fresher still were the strangers' smiles, their warm soup, their chocolat. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I do."

All three of the Fae smiled.

"They will be safer without you here," said Pearl.

"But we will not leave them without thanks," said Rose.

"We will begin teaching you now," said Garnet.

* * *

The girl left, leaving only vague memories of her behind.

The soldiers missed her, but they all agreed it was for the best she'd left. The front was no place for a child. They couldn't have borne it, if she'd been killed. Looking back, they weren't entirely sure why they'd allowed her to stick around so long.

She'd been an odd kid, anyway.

Though the girl was gone, she and the other Fae had left a mark, invisible as it was. The soldiers had cared for her, and that deserved something in exchange. Each Fae had left a gift, a charm. From Garnet: bunks that were always warm. From Pearl: boots and socks that stayed dry, feet that never became diseased. From Rose: fresh air, without a hint of poison.

From the girl: a seemingly endless supply of chocolate.

* * *

The journey the Fae took the girl on was long, but it was the most exciting time of her life.

It was a relief to leave behind the trenches, even if it meant saying goodbye to her friends. The world beyond them was beautiful, and filled with such excitement and novelty. Radios! Planes! Zippers! Ice-cream!

She saw the ocean for the first time, and it was amazing, how it stretched on for ever and ever and ever.

It was a good thing she liked it, because it took a full month to cross it, even with Pearl summoning a wind to fill their sails. The girl was never bored, however. She spent her time learning all manner of things. About modern English and French, and how to speak it. About where she had come from. About the Fae and their laws. About magic and conjurings and glamor.

She was a shapechanger, it turned out. It came to her naturally. She liked to jump through the waves as a dolphin, fly through the air like a bird.

Garnet, Pearl and Rose were never scared of her. They never flinched away. They didn't get mad if she screamed, never told her to stop rocking back and forth, or that she couldn't eat driftwood. They said she was perfect just the way she was.

* * *

They took her to a cave in a land called America. This was good: the girl liked caves. From the outside, it didn't look strange at all. But when she stepped inside, the world seemed to shift, and it was a million times better than the tiny dens that had littered the landscape in her old home in France.

There were waterfalls that flowed upwards. Pools of bubbling lava. Soft, pink clouds. A giant, beating heart, pulsating with light. And from the walls jutted all sorts of bright crystals in all sorts of colors.

The girl was drawn to them, partly for their sparkle, partly because they reminded her of her old name. Not all the time she'd spent with maman and papa and her brothers and sister had been bad.

"What's this?" she said, pointing to bright red rock.

"Garnet," said Garnet, smiling.

"And this?" she said, pointing at a stone of soft pink.

"Rose Quartz," said Rose.

She frowned at them. "Are you named after the rocks?"

Rose said no; she was named after the flower. And Pearl said, _technically_ , her name didn't come from a rock at all, but rather a hard, shiny object produced by an animal called an oyster.

"I am," said Garnet. "I picked it myself. To fit in with the others."

The girl liked this. She wanted to fit in too. She wanted to belong.

She looked at her dark, purple skin. There was a rock in the wall, almost the exact same color.

"What's that called?" she said, and Garnet smiled wider at her.

"Amethyst."

* * *

Nearly a hundred years later, Amethyst held a baby in her arms, a tiny boy who chewed absently on one of her fingers.

She felt sick in her stomach, sick with grief, and her eyes were sore from tears she refused to shed, and she was tired, just tired, and angry.

But not at him. Not at Steven.

It had been a long, long time since she'd been a sister. Since she'd had siblings.

She still remembered them. Or little things about them. A sister braiding her hair. A brother teaching her how to carve wood. Minding the sheep with another brother, as he sung songs to pass the time.

Technically, they'd never really been hers. Not by blood, and if there had been a bond, it had long since been severed.

But there had been good parts, there. Amethyst hoped she could be as good as they had once been. She hoped she could be _better._

She would make sure Steven belonged too.


	6. In The Name of Freedom

**Summary:** _Pearl isn't sure if she wants to love a baby, all messy and loud and above all else, not Rose._

 _Unfortunately, she doesn't seem to have much of a choice in the matter._

oOoOo

 **In The Name of Freedom**

Names were important.

Most humans had forgotten this. Thought they were simply labels, a convenient way of telling one thing or person apart from another. But names were more than that. They reflected a true part of a being's nature. And if you knew someone's nature — knew their Name — you could control them.

* * *

In the past, in some cultures, babies were not named until their first birthday. They had to prove themselves capable of surviving a full year, before they were truly considered a person and invited into the family.

After the initial birth, that was how long Pearl waited before she went to see Rose's child again.

Not because it hurt. Not because she couldn't bear to look at the baby. Not because she spent most days curled up in a ball in her room. Not because part of her wondered, if the baby did die, whether the essence and the power Rose Quartz had poured into the child would return to its original owner —

No. She waited because it was traditional.

Besides, Garnet and Amethyst were going too, so Pearl could hardly stay behind.

They were officially the baby's three godparents, and with this came certain duties. Part of this was the blessings, which the three Fae all gave. But they also gave gifts perhaps more precious than those: names.

The baby already had two: Steven Universe. But that was woefully inadequate.

Middle names. Now there was another invention that humanity had forgotten the function of. The entire reason people had started using them in the first place was to ward off the influence of Fae, and other magic users with ill intent. They were meant to be kept secret, held away from all but those one trusted completely. People could not use your Name against you, if they did not know all of it.

There weren't a lot of Fae on this plane, at least not anymore. But perhaps one day that would change, so the Crystal Court had sworn to be prepared. They would give the baby _three_ middle names, to make him all the safer.

Amethyst named him after a human, one she was fond of. Garnet named him something random, which would be hard to guess. Pearl named him something poetic, befitting Rose's blood.

Pearl held the child in her arms as she announced his new name with the quiet solemnity such a moment deserved.

He gurgled at her and blew a spit bubble.

To Pearl's own surprise, she found herself smiling down at Steven Universe.

* * *

Steven was a delightful child.

This wasn't an opinion or exaggeration. It was fact. Steven's mere presence caused delight in all who met him.

Greg, of course, loved his son — and while he could get frustrated after a long, sleepless night, or when he'd been vomited on for the third time that day, or tripped over some baby toy strewn carelessly on the ground — he never seemed to get angry at him.

Amethyst could spend hours with Steven, entertaining him by transforming her face and body into all sorts of hilarious animal shapes, mixing and matching them. The baby would laugh and clap and make stumbling attempts at words, and Amethyst would congratulate him as if he'd made some amazing accomplishment.

Garnet would cradle him in her arms, lulling him to sleep with quiet, well-rehearsed humming, or else distracting him with with conjured sparkles. Sometimes Steven would reach out to grab them. Other times, he'd wrap his little fist around one of Garnet's fingers, and even though she could, objectively, easily get out of his hold and break his bones for good measure, Garnet would simply comment on how _strong_ he was.

But this was just the baby's immediate family. Such affection was natural, and to be expected. It was the way strangers reacted. They'd stop to look at him on the street. They'd coo about how he was the cutest baby they had ever seen, even with their own children in strollers a few feet away. They'd offer him toys and other gifts, completely unprompted. Once, on a long bus ride, Steven, scared by the loud engine and the rumbling beneath, had burst into tears. Instead of being annoyed at the painful shrieks and cries, the whole bus had reassured Greg that _no, no, it's quite alright, don't even worry about it_ , and practically tripped over themselves to comfort the poor boy. Not because he was annoying, but because they simply could not bear to see him sad.

Everyone loved Steven.

Even Pearl.

This troubled her. Something was happening here.

Something uncanny.

* * *

Greg had reassured Pearl that it was all perfectly normal. "People love babies," Greg had simply said. "Built into us."

But Steven did not remain a baby, and as he grew, so did people's love for him.

Garnet saw it too. The vaguely distant look people could sometimes get in their eyes when playing with him. How if Steven asked for something, he would receive it, no matter what. How people would go out of their way to please him, common sense be damned.

Rose had always been very Charming, and her child was too, it seemed.

Only Rose had known how to control her Charm, and had worked hard to hone the morals not to use it on the unsuspecting. A toddler had no such things.

There was something perhaps more troubling still. The way the world seemed to bend to him. Not to his will, but to his beliefs. And the beliefs of a young child were powerful things indeed.

The colorful cartoon characters he watched on TV ended up visiting him for tea parties, somehow turned three dimensional. The monsters Steven wailed about in the night really did hide under his bed or in his closet, and it was more often than not up to Pearl to valiantly vanquish them. Every cat in his vicinity became a girl, every dog a boy.

There were precautions to be made. Things that would have effectively bound any regular Fae, or even killed them, but which, thanks to Steven's dual nature, would merely mute his abilities. Garnet and Amethyst could not implement them — the attempt might cause serious injuries. Greg could have done it, being fully human, but, quite frankly, Pearl didn't trust him not to mess it up.

Pearl had been human once, long ago. And although that humanity had long faded under the many layers of enchantments forced upon her, there was still enough to give her some immunity. So she was the one who wove bracelets of rowan and hazel, even if they left an unpleasant itch under her skin. She was the one who forged a necklace of iron, thinking of Bismuth's lessons all the while, even if it left her hands red as if burned. She was the one who laid the first salt circle around Steven's bed, Greg watching her do it, even if it made her mouth taste like seawater for a week.

It seemed to work. Strangers' eyes weren't automatically drawn to Steven when he walked down the boardwalk. If Steven went into the store and asked for a donut, the cashier would only give it to him if he paid first. If people laughed at Steven's jokes, it was only because they were genuinely funny.

But still. It wasn't enough. Pearl was certain of it.

Garnet found her one early morning, the day after Steven had turned six. She was out at an old family barn of Greg's, hammering at cold iron with all her strength. Pearl didn't notice her at first, so preoccupied in her chore, and practically screamed when she finally saw Garnet standing in the door frame.

"Get out of here!" she snapped, waving a hand at all the iron surrounding them. "It's dangerous for you."

"It's dangerous for you as well," Garnet said.

"I'm fine," Pearl protested.

Garnet simply stared at her, moving her gaze slowly down to Pearl's hands.

Normally unblemished white, like porcelain, now they were covered in ugly red blisters, some bleeding fresh. There were other markings too, where the cold iron had happened to touch — at her waist, along her arms, her cheek —

"It doesn't hurt," Pearl lied.

Garnet's face was stony. She did not move until, finally, Pearl put down the hammer and stepped away from the anvil.

"This isn't necessary," Garnet said.

"It is."

"Steven's powers have been contained. Spoons full of vegetables have stopped turning into airplanes just because he thinks it. People aren't being controlled by him. Everything's fine."

"It's not, though —" Pearl protested, her face turning blue from the rush of nameless emotions. "The way you all act around him — playing, cuddling —"

Garnet shrugged. "He's a cute kid."

"He's more than _cute_. He's —"

 _Adorable. Sweet. Charming. When I see him, I just want to hold him close. I want to hover over him, and make sure his hands are clean and that he hasn't gotten into any trouble. I want nothing more than to make him smile —_

"He's doing something to me," Pearl choked. "He's making me — _feel_ things. I know what that's like. He's controlling me."

Because he had to be. He had to. Because Steven was messy, and noisy, and confusing, and obnoxious. He was the son of Greg Universe. He was the son of Rose Quartz, the son that she'd died for, the son she'd left them all behind for —

He _had_ to be — doing something to her —

Garnet stepped forward, and placed a heavy hand on Pearl's shoulder.

"He's not controlling you," Garnet said. "He can't be."

"How do you _know that -_?" Pearl said, anger burning like the tears in her eyes.

"Because Rose made sure he couldn't," she said. "It was in the terms of the ceremony she used to re-name you."

And Pearl could hear those words ringing in her ear, as loudly as the day they'd first been spoken, hundreds of years ago:

 _"I name you the Knight of the Roses. Brought from the very brink of eternal winter, forever free of its clutches. Bound to my service and no-one else's until I consider the tenets of our exchange satisfied."_

Rose had freed her from Winter's command — and freed her of all other's control. Forever.

Pearl shook her head. "But — that makes no sense!"

"It does." Garnet wiped a tear off Pearl's face. "You know it does. Pearl, if you love Steven, it's only of your own free will."

Pearl stared at her friend, blinking.

Then she collapsed into Garnet's chest and, sobbing, let herself be held the way she hadn't been since Rose had died.

* * *

Garnet's words had lifted a heavy burden from Pearl's shoulders, but not removed her suspicions completely. Because there was still one possibility Garnet had not considered — or perhaps, simply not voiced — that nonetheless preyed at Pearl, that left her staring at the night sky, lost deep in thought. Another reason she could love Steven as much as she did.

Over a week passed before Pearl summoned the courage to put her theory to the test.

Greg was working at the carwash. Garnet was on a mission. Amethyst was off doing who-knew-what. In a rare chance, Steven had been left completely alone in Pearl's care.

The boy was sprawled out on the floor, playing with some dolls. An expression of intent concentration was fixed on his face, only occasionally disrupted by frowns or peals of laughter as he acted out his toys' busy lives.

Sitting on a chair a little ways away, Pearl straightened. In her loudest, clearest voice, she said, "Steven Vidalia Motorcycle Wild-growth Universe."

He looked up, and blinked at her.

"I command you to stand on one leg," Pearl ordered.

"Why?" asked Steven.

"B —because I said so!"

Steven frowned. "But I'm playing."

"You can play later. Now, I command you, Steven Motorcycle Vidalia Wild-growth Universe, to stand on one leg."

His frowned deepened. "But I don't wanna."

Pearl could have pressed. But it would have been pointless. The point had been proven.

He hadn't responded to his Name.

 _He hadn't responded to his Name._

But all things responded to their Name. That was how it worked. If he could disobey it, then it meant —

— that wasn't his Name, after all.

But of course not. Of course. They'd gotten the being's nature all wrong. This was not a human, so of course a human name would not work. Perhaps this wasn't even a child, in the traditional sense. A child's body, perhaps; a new kind of glamour, one which ran so deep as to affect even memories and personality, but beneath it all, still Rose, still —

"The Rose Whose Beauty Enraptures Even As Her Thorns Pierce," Pearl said, and again, at the name, the child looked up at her. "If you are so Named, I command you to stand on one leg."

There was a moment that seemed to stretch for an infinity.

And then Steven cocked his head. "Is this a game or something?"

"No," said Pearl. "No! This is not a game!"

"'Cuz I'll stand on one leg if we're playing Simon Says —"

Pearl buried her face in her hand, still blistered, now bandaged.

He hadn't responded to his own Name. He hadn't responded to his mother's Name.

Who was he? _What_ was he?

She felt something poke her leg.

"Pearl?" a small voice said. "Pearl, are you okay?"

She removed her hand and looked down at him. "I'm not sure," she admitted.

"Oh." Steven seemed to consider this for a moment, then said, "Sorry I didn't stand on my leg like you said. I can do it now if you want."

Pearl closed her eyes. "No. No, you don't need to. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you to do that."

He didn't say anything, and Pearl couldn't look at him. Not until he thrust something at her. She took it with clumsy hands. It was one of his dolls. It had golden blonde hair and a big, smiley face. "Then do you wanna play with Sarah Sunlight? She helps me feel better."

"... alright," Pearl agreed at last, and went to join him on the floor.

Maybe, for now, those questions didn't really matter.


End file.
